Plain to See
by OrangeShipper
Summary: When Matthew sees something he shouldn't, he begins to think of things that he shouldn't... and, trapped by his own fear and the very object of the thoughts he should not harbour, his control begins to unravel. S2 AU, shortly after 2x04. Rating change to M!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _Happy Monday! Welcome to my latest little venture, in honour of Pemonynen's birthday (coming on Wednesday). Her request was smut inspired by Matthew's very attractive red mess kit uniform during the S2 reruns, and as usual, it's gotten a little carried away from me. I envisage probably three chapters, and here is the first!_

_Set shortly after 2x04, and obviously AU. Massive thanks to Pemonynen for the idea, Patsan for talking bits through, and Miscreantrose for the polish._

_Enjoy!_

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**Plain To See**

When she found him late that evening, he was sitting in what had used to be the music room, a pensive frown creasing his brow. Now the room formed part of the soldiers' recreation area, next to their cots in the drawing room, but it found little use in comparison to the larger space of the library. As such it was more peaceful, and Matthew was glad of it as an uncomfortable blush crept up the back of his neck, his hand covering the small cards he'd found left on a table in the library. He turned one over again, lifting it, looking at it, blinking as he dared himself not to look away from the photograph on it, the hot sting of naive shame making his throat dry and tight.

God, he'd seen worse things than this! On the wasteland battlefields he'd seen men torn apart, parts of bodies and what lay within them that he'd never imagined to see, his own hand shaking as it gripped a gun, piss in the muddied craters of a trench. All that he'd seen, and now saw without flinching, it now being simply a part of his life. _Natural_. He shuddered. But this - more natural than any of that, or so his rational mind insisted, a woman's body - he shied away from?

Bringing the card closer to his face, Matthew breathed deeply against the tumult of feelings the image brought on. His eyes traced shapes and shadows, burning them into his mind, comparing and finding himself reminded of... or at least what he imagined of...

"Ah, there you are!"

At the sound of Mary's voice he slammed the card back down beneath his palm, twisting as he saw her. Her smile was damning in its simple pleasantness, her innocence of the thoughts that he'd been dwelling on making him burn with discomfort. "We wondered where you'd got to," she said, taking another step into the room.

He stood up sharply, shielding the cards on the arm of the chair with his body, distractedly smoothing out imagined creases in his scarlet and black uniform.

"I just needed some air for a minute. I'm sorry, it's very good of your parents to have put me up for the rest of my leave but I don't think I'm especially good company tonight." His nervous laugh shielded his fear, a poor cover for it. Mary's brow creased in immediate sympathy, but he didn't want that. He just wanted to forget it all, to find his usual state of numbness, before he was on the train tomorrow and safely away from here. _Safely_? He must be mad.

"Oh Matthew, don't be silly. It's a shame you weren't able to get up to London after all, I'm sure you'd much rather have spent time with Lavinia than all of us."

"Unfortunate timing, it couldn't be helped. I don't think I know the family well enough yet to warrant attendance at a distant aunt's funeral." His wry smile wasn't wholly convincing as the thought struck him again, of how little he really knew Lavinia and her family. And yet he was supposed to marry her. They should know each other better than anyone else in the world, but as he stood before Mary, it was her understanding smile that seemed to pierce to the depth of his soul and bare it. Not the thought of his fiancée. In fact the thought of his fiancée made his stomach clench with unease, and he pushed it away.

As if able to sense his distress, though he hoped she imagined its cause were simply his impending return to the front (wouldn't that be reason enough, after what had happened?), she stepped closer and touched his arm in comfort. "If you say so. Anyway, you won't find any complaint from us. You know we are all happy to see you, always."

"Thank you," he said stiffly, desperately aware of her closeness and his arm still tingling from the faint brush of her fingers against the fabric of his uniform that had sparked something deeper within him. Once more the fantasy flashed into his mind, unbidden, improper, and he wished he hadn't seen those damned postcards or had left them alone.

She must have seen his blush, his slight shift sideways to shield them from her view. Her eyes lit up, her lips quirking into a sly smile.

"What are you hiding, there? Whatever you were looking at when I came in."

"Nothing, I mean I'm not - hiding anything." He sidestepped, blocking as she tried to peer around his shoulder.

"Yes, you are! What is it?" They shifted again, a mocking dance as her hands landed on his chest to steady herself, and his clasping her arms to hold her back as he pleaded with her.

"Mary, please-"

"There!" She cried triumphantly as she saw past him, and Matthew at last admitted defeat, hands falling to his sides as hers came out to sweep the cards up into her grasp. He could have argued, could have snatched them back or told her she mustn't look, but what good would that have done? His hand pushed back through his hair, shame biting at every heightened nerve as he saw her expression change.

First it was curious excitement, before her eyebrows shot up in evident surprise. They slowly lowered to a gentle frown, her face then revealing something between confusion and shock. _Or disappointment_, he thought. He, too, knew that he was better than that, than to stare at penny pictures of nakedness. He watched her do as he had done, bringing the image closer to her face, though her expression betrayed disbelief rather than his determination. Slowly, her finger traced the curve of breast and bottom so plainly visible, the raven dark hair cascading over the nameless woman's naked shoulders just as he'd often imagined her own would do.

He watched her, eyes shamefully riveted to her lips that parted into a whispered, "Oh." Her eyes flicked up to his, an unmistakable blush tinting the paleness of her cheeks above a taunting smile. "Well, Captain Crawley, you are a dark horse."

"I'm sorry," he said, unable to move as his body burned with guilt, his throat almost painfully dry. "They're not... mine, I just... they were left on a table, and..."

"What do you have to be sorry for? It isn't anything to me, whether they're yours or not."

Her tone was careful, her expression guarded, unreadable, and Matthew licked his lips, confused. He found that he didn't really know, only felt convicted that he _should_, that he was wrong, that this wasn't right. Nothing seemed right, not even his own body in his skin, he didn't seem to fit and could barely recognise himself. Of course he couldn't admit the truth, that he had seen those images and allowed himself to be reminded of Mary, to think of her. God, no. It wasn't right, and yet he still couldn't shake the slow, irrepressible pulse of need that stirred deep within. He needed so much, needed something, that he couldn't begin to admit to himself... let alone to her.

He shook his head. "Because... to look at them, even, isn't what I expect of myself," he said slowly.

Mary only blinked at him, lowering her head a little. "I see. I think the war has ruined many people's expectations, of themselves and everything else. I don't think," she inhaled sharply, as if it pained her to say the words, "anyone could condemn you for taking small pleasures where you're able."

She gave a dry chuckle, waving the cards carelessly until he snatched them from her hands, casting them away onto the chair. They fell and landed face up, all suggestive smiles and nakedness displayed without care, mocking him.

"Do you think I'd take _pleasure_ so cheaply, like - like any common, filthy soldier?" He was angry, suddenly, furious, though more at himself for feeling so bloody _bothered_ by it. "I'm not like that! I'm... not, I... I wouldn't."

But he _had_. At least, he'd looked, and he'd indulged the thought of it, and just for a moment he'd wished - he still did - and his own thoughts and desires taunted him now. He heard his own breath in his ears, harsh and ragged as his chest rose and fell, wishing he could run from the concern in her eyes but unable to move. She was so still, so calm next to his restless agitation, and something within him weakened.

"It's alright, Matthew." Tentatively, she reached out again, her touch a lifeline, and he swallowed back the sting of tears.

"No it isn't," he hissed, withdrawing into himself. She couldn't understand, she had no idea, of course she couldn't! It wasn't the same at all, for her, how could it be? His eyes glazed over as his heart beat with a familiar thud of fear, this time tinged with a greater fear, not only of death but of the loss of a part of himself that he'd never had the chance to find. And with his return to the front looming in the morning, the fear of it came flooding back, only heightened by the emotions wrought in him by those damned cards, and the woman before him.

"What is it?" Her voice wavered, and he looked up to see the worry in her eyes.

His resolve began to falter, the weight in his chest too heavy to ignore. _Fear_.

"I'm scared." The admittance was barely a whisper, barely a breath past his lips.

"Oh, Matthew." This time tears trembled at the edge of her words. "I can't imagine what it's like, I know, but you must believe that you'll come through it. Please."

"But what if I don't?" He gripped her arm now, too, instinctively, staring at her as if she could give him the answer. Warring feelings raged in his body, his voice shaking with intensity. "What if I don't, and I've never... I mean, I've never even... Oh God, it's stupid. It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters." She fixed him with an unrelenting look that was trying to understand, that only made him feel more pitiful. "Whatever it is, it matters. Please tell me."

"It's pathetic, really." His bitter laugh rang out at himself, his pride already trampled on, forgotten. He waved a hand toward the cards on the chair, as if they could explain it for him. "I haven't ever... Well. I suppose I've had the opportunity enough times, any man does if they pay the right price, but I haven't, I'm - I'm not like that, Mary."  
She stared back at him, her eyes wide before she seemed to recover herself, and breathed.

"No, of course you're not."

"It hasn't ever bothered me before, I mean, I couldn't - with anyone I didn't love, and I always thought that when I married..." He shook his head, lost in memories of the dreams he'd had, that seemed so dreadfully naive now. And then the memory encroached again, of barren landscape and fear and the heavy boot steps of the enemy over his head where he'd lain hidden, and all his dreams had seemed to shatter. The constant pressure of Mary's hand on his arm slowly drew him back, and he swallowed thickly. "I suppose I should be afraid of dying more than anything else, but really I'm not. I'm afraid of all the things that I'll never have the chance for if I do."

She nodded, slowly, and he saw that she was trying to understand him. _God, Mary_... What an angel she seemed, what brightness in the shadows of his fear and insecurity.

"What about Lavinia?" She voiced the suggestion quietly, almost tentatively. The name came like a knife between them, a sharp intrusion, cutting air already thick with unspoken desperation. A stark reminder of the woman he was to marry, the woman he loved, the woman he was supposed to long for, anyway.

"Well there hasn't ever - been the chance. And if I'm honest," he paused, and frowned. "I've never really thought of Lavinia like that."

The realisation of his own words struck him like a blow. For all he loved Lavinia, and adored her sweetness and kindness, had his passion in proposing to her been misguided somewhere? There'd been passion, yes, but of a different kind. His own passion to put the past behind him, to have a woman's comfort to cling to and letters to look forward to. Looking back now, he realised he had never fantasised about her, never imagined the heat of them entwined together in tangled sheets, and in fact it felt almost wrong to do so.

He stared at Mary, his heart pounding.

_Not like you._ It wasn't that he thought Mary any less innocent, or less good, than Lavinia. There was just something about her, something he was rediscovering with every breath he drew, something indefinably alluring in her very being that he was proving powerless against.

_Oh God_. He'd managed to forget, to drive all of this out, and now the pent-up desire he'd managed to suppress for years came raging back through his veins.

He was so afraid. And Mary was warm, and safe, and here, steady, a beacon in the storm that threatened to drown him. She stood before him and listened with such compassion, such understanding in her deep brown eyes, as he raved and bemoaned about how he'd never made love to a woman, and if he could only ever have one, just one... _Oh God._

"Matthew..." His name was soft on her lips, as her fingers slid down his arm to take his hand in hers. Her eyes were bright and locked on to his, questioning, or warning, he could hardly tell.

His breath caught in his throat. "Mary, I'm - so sorry," he choked, and she was only a breath away, just there, and he couldn't think clearly. He was sorry for so much, for walking away and for coming back and for how he felt, for not being able to control himself, for the thoughts he'd so shamefully had and now so desperately wanted to act on.

Her soft plea filled his senses, "Please..."

_Please what? Please kiss me, please let me go, please don't say another word, please love me, please_... But there was no air in the diminishing space between them, no breath, no thought, and he dimly saw her eyes flutter closed even as their lips pressed together in wondering torment.

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**TBC**

A/N: _Thanks so much for reading! Chapter 2 coming sometime Wednesday... Your thoughts are always so greatly appreciated!_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _I'm so sorry it isn't Wednesday! I had completely forgotten a social commitment that lasted the entire evening, and have (irritatingly) had a marking backlog to work through, so I can only apologise... BUT HERE IT IS. And a very happy, happy (belated...) birthday to my very dear friend Pemonynen!_

_I have been completely overwhelmed by the response to chapter one, and I'm so touched that you've taken this idea on board - I can only hope that part two will live up to the challenge! Thank you all so, so much._

_Heartfelt thanks to miscreantrose for her advice and polish. With that, enjoy!_

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**Chapter Two**

With a steely glint in his eyes, Matthew studied himself in the bedroom mirror. He saw the reflection of the crackling fire in the grate behind him, the spitting flames highlighting the uniform he still wore, his body too restless to sleep. Why was the garment worn with such pride, when it seemed only to mock him? Red for the spilled blood of innocence, black for the darkness threatening to engulf his soul. Blue eyes stared back, eyes that had seen too much to forget.

What sort of a man was he, now? A stranger in his own skin, and he longed only to find himself once more. Tonight seemed his final chance, the last opportunity to discover the true heart of himself before going back, to where he must harden and kill in a manner that had become so natural that he barely even noticed it. Out there, then, he feared he would be lost forever. But at what cost would he recover himself - if it were even possible to do so?

His eyes closed, fingertips touching to his lips still tender from Mary's kisses, stinging him with guilt that he couldn't bring himself to regret. They'd been interrupted too soon, or perhaps more rightly, just in time. The purposeful pad of footsteps beyond the door had stifled their passion in a crushing instant, her fingers withdrawing from his hair with a jerk as his own had released the heavily beaded material of her dress bunched fiercely in his hands, falling to conceal her slender, silken legs. There'd been no time to think, or to judge, only to hurriedly calm their ragged breaths and smooth down tousled hair before they were found out.

He told himself they'd been lucky, back in the small library, as Robert had smiled and patted his shoulder and Violet had bid him goodbye and good luck for the morning. Now it only seemed blasted unfair. To be tortured by a taste of Mary's lips, too sweet, too brief, too sudden for him to comprehend what was happening, or what it meant, had thrown his world off kilter. It all seemed upside down, till he didn't know what was right and what was wrong any more, or what he truly felt. The shock of pleasure had been sublime and terrifying, the bruising pressure of her lips against his and her slim frame held tight in his arms, the first breathless connection of their mouths building quickly to a frenzied passion roused from its slumber.

It hadn't been enough, and it frightened him.

In an impetuous rush, even as her hand had reached for the doorknob, the whispered plea had left his lips, "_Come to me_." Her eyes had widened and he saw his own conflict reflected in their depths, before company encroached and polite smiles were employed.

_Damn._

His eyes opened once more, to see the hard set of his jaw in the mirror. It hardly mattered, anyway, she wouldn't come. There was no point in wondering what on earth he'd been thinking. He hadn't been thinking at all. Mary was engaged to another, he told himself sternly, and so was he! Anyway their love had fallen at the hurdle so long ago, it had broken. As Mary had said, the war had changed their expectations - could a hurried, desperate kiss born of the fear of never having another really mean much at all? He didn't care to think of the answer, as much as a myriad of thoughts spun around his mind.

The quiet rap on the bedroom door startled him. A rush of fear invaded his spirit, and he felt his pulse race in a sickeningly familiar way as he turned to open it. _This is not a battlefield_, he told himself, but no practised strategy to calm himself would work. He swallowed, an echoing whistle ringing in his ears as he reached for the handle and turned it.

Mary was a vision of pale skin and silk dressing gown, a heavy shawl clutched protectively around her shoulders, her long hair caught in a chestnut braid. Taking him by surprise, she brushed quickly past him inside the room without a word of hello, until he realised of course it wouldn't do for her to be seen standing in the hallway outside his door.

"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly, clinging to the shreds of truth that he could understand.

Her eyebrow arched slowly. "You asked me to come."

"I know, but I..." He sighed, and shook his head. "It was wrong of me to."

A smile hovered at her lips. "You needn't worry about taking advantage of me, Matthew. I wouldn't let you, believe me."

"God, Mary!" he spluttered, shaken by her apparent boldness. "You know I'd never - I hadn't meant to-"

"Shhh," she placed a hand on his arm, placating him as her smile broadened kindly. "Sit down, and talk to me."

He mutely followed her to the chaise by the fire, where they sat so closely together their knees touched. Each breath was carefully drawn, finding he needed to concentrate on it, his eyes transfixed by the anxious twitch of her fingers in her lap. The uneasy stillness between them felt like the calm before the storm, and Matthew felt the inevitability of their nature shifting, tentatively finding its proper place. He sat stiffly in his uniform, uncomfortably aware of how little she wore in comparison, of the troublesome intimacy of her hair not done up as it should be in his company.

"What time is your train in the morning?" she asked quietly. The simplicity of the question, how terribly ordinary and mundane it was, startled him. But then, he couldn't even begin to think about what she might have chosen to come here for if not that, and instead clung to the calming inanity of it.

"Six o'clock."

"Sneaking away again?" She tilted her head, lifting her eyebrow with a smile. It was a fair accusation. "You'd have stolen our chance to say goodbye."

A trembling sigh escaped his lips. "It wouldn't have been right to seek you out," he commented. Though of course he knew she meant all of them, he had already made his goodbyes to the rest. His heart contracted pleasantly to think that she, too, would have been dissatisfied to part on the back of insensible kisses. How could either of them have dealt with that, with all that lay between them?

He licked his lips. Even as things stood, the fact alone that they'd shared such an embrace had forced him to face and question so many of the choices he'd made. His world was changing around him, even as they sat together, barely touching, unmoving. "Anyway," he chuckled, in a poor attempt to ease the thick tension between them, "I've grown rather tired of goodbyes. It's easier sometimes not to."

"I'm sure you think so," she blinked, and he felt a kind of judgement in her gaze despite her small smile. He swallowed, looking guiltily down at his hands. Was it so very selfish of him? Somehow goodbye had lost its value, when there were so many he'd lost the chance to say it to. Suddenly Mary leaned forwards, breaking into his consciousness as her hand gently touched his knee. "Tell me about Lavinia."

His eyes snapped up to hers. "Why?"

"Because it's important."

"Of course it is," he shook his head, frowning. Just because he didn't want to face it, didn't deny Mary the right to ask. In fact, he ruefully admitted to himself, she was probably right to. The question of _Lavinia_ suddenly seemed the most imperative dilemma, no matter the discomfort it gave him. Of course Mary would see that, and be unafraid to face it. His chest tightened as he looked at her, feeling heat rise up the back of his neck.

She waited for his answer, and the tick of the clock beat out its rebuke.

He couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes as he finally spoke, with difficulty. "Well, you know her as well as anyone. She's the loveliest creature." He flinched as his own words caught up with him - _as well as anyone_ - when she'd asked him about her. Of course his response should be more than that, but wasn't Lavinia the same to him as to everyone? Kind, affectionate, good-natured, gentle? What more could he say, to describe the angel everyone knew that she was?

His fingers flexed tersely. "She's been a great comfort to me," he said, with a great deal of conviction, knowing that all this was the very cut of it. Lavinia was the best of women... and he thought of her so highly. But highly was not passionately, and he forced himself now to face the thought that there were deeper recesses of his soul that her love could simply not satisfy, that lurking at the back of his mind through every kiss and conversation they'd shared, he had felt somehow incomplete.

The shocking truth of what he'd felt with Mary now hit him, with full force. In those precious few moments where lips had wordlessly communicated through touch, invoking feelings that had been buried so deeply, he had felt complete. Only it had been interrupted too soon, snatched away far too quickly to process what the feeling meant.

"But you wonder if you really love her?" Mary asked softly, withdrawing her hand to her lap and meeting his gaze with eyes that seemed to understand his turmoil.

The bluntness of her question shocked him, coming from her, but he answered without hesitation, "No, I do love her, of course." A breathless pause hovered between them before he continued, almost too quietly to be heard. "I do, but... not quite in the way I'm supposed to, I think."

He stood up brusquely, pacing at the foot of the bed as if he could shake off the feelings of guilt that clung to him. Facing the truth of his feelings for Lavinia was forcing him to evaluate other questions, other truths, about why he'd been so rash and convinced himself of feelings stronger than he possessed. It was forcing him to remember why, feelings that he'd buried, memories too painful, another love that he'd told himself had been mistaken and naive. Mistaken and naive, perhaps. But strong, and fierce, frighteningly so, and more so now that he remembered it again as it seemed to creep in around the edge of the room.

It was Mary's soft voice that turned him back.

"I'm not so certain there is a way one should love somebody." Her voice was a mere whisper, but she smiled at him as he looked at her in surprise. "Matthew... You know you have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Haven't I? Haven't I led Lavinia on by supposing to love her, by letting her accept that love in an engagement, when it seems I can't even be sure of it myself?" He gestured helplessly, shaking his head, knowing he must be a severe disappointment to her expectations of his integrity. How could she possibly think him free from shame? When he'd admitted to leading Lavinia on, when he'd admitted his own cowardice, when he'd cheapened himself and taunted his mind with scandalous images when at heart he knew better, and had kissed her in wanton disregard of all propriety?

He was hopelessly disappointed in himself, and chuckled sadly. "You wouldn't say I have nothing to be ashamed of if you knew what has been in my mind."

Mary stood to face him, drawing her shawl closer around her shoulders despite the crackling heat of the fire, as if it were a shield around her. She smiled, as one would at a misguided child who thinks their scraped knee is the severest wound in the world.

"Wouldn't I?" she shrugged, expressing a sort of sympathy. "We can't always be in control of the way we feel. Or of what might happen because of it. You can judge and disapprove all you want, but it doesn't really change things. Shame seems a waste of time, when time marches on relentless anyway."

She was right, he knew. Despite his better sense, they had kissed, and it couldn't be changed now. He couldn't turn back the clock on the things he'd done. Even so, he blushed at the fantasies that had taken root in his consciousness, and how he longed to indulge them.

He couldn't help the rake of his eyes over her body, and was close enough now to see her shiver in response, her eyes darkening a shade.

Time marches on, relentless. Where years had once stretched out before him, now he could barely think a few days, a few hours, in advance. He certainly couldn't count on much more than that. Shame, and regrets, did seem a waste of time - and his biggest regret of all was for a chance not taken, for walking away one summer's day, and leaving her behind.

Surely he couldn't make the same mistake again, not now?

"What about... Sir Richard?" His question was soft as their fingers found each other, linked together, pulled closer, until she came naturally into the warm circle of his arms. Heat passed through touch, the connection familiar even in its newness, reassuring in the madness of the night.

"Don't." She shook her head, eyes narrowing in unvoiced sadness as her fingertip touched to his lips. "Like I said... we're not always in control."

He frowned, concern lining his features, lit softly by the fire. "Mary..."

"Please, Matthew. Not now."

His lips parted as he nodded, drawing breath, accepting of the mutual invitation wrought in the diminishing space between their bodies. They didn't understand each other, couldn't, even. But they could understand this, the flame that sparked between them and ignited the farthest, darkest corners of their beings, and this time as his lips found the sweetness of her mouth it was a slower, but surer, caress.

**TBC**

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A/N: _Thank you so much for reading! Shall we say next chapter by Monday? I'd love to know what you think - thank you!_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _Another apology for my tardiness... but here we are. Thank you so much for your sweet and enthusiastic reviews - I've been so touched by them. May I present the official (belated) birthday chapter for dear Pemonynen. Heads up for the rating change!_

_My dear thanks to both her and Miscreantrose for listening to me chatter about this, and for their motivation and polish._

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter Three**

As their lips teased heatedly together, pulling apart and finding again, a lyrical rhythm of warm delight that infused through their limbs, Mary breathed out a sigh. She felt herself release through the exhalation, letting every argument go, her very being abandoned to the warm haven of Matthew's arms and his mouth.

Earlier when it had happened, she'd been shocked, afraid of everything that it meant, too much to grasp the pleasure it offered. But now instead of the chasm that they'd fumbled with hurried, stolen kisses to reach across, they clasped each other close in the tentative understanding they'd revealed, here in the glow of the fire amid the darkness. Afraid to let it go again, hands clutching at fabric, lips caught in heavenly, possessive kisses.

Could it really be so easy? No, she remembered, none of this was _easy_, as his departure loomed heavily over them when she felt she'd only just found him again. Whatever he'd admitted about Lavinia, he hadn't yet admitted to anything about _her,_ beyond what he told her wordlessly through every new taste and touch, eager against her skin. And besides that, what of her own skeletons?

Never mind the future, it spun out of her mind for a moment as her head spun in dizzying bliss, the feel of Matthew's hands everywhere on her as her shawl slipped to the floor and his mouth caressed each freckle of her neck. She could hear him whisper, the soft murmur of her name on his lips against her skin, and she shuddered as his fingertips shakily dared to skim her breast. The future be damned, she knew what he wanted now and she craved it herself so fiercely her very skin ached for it. Snatched memories of their conversation downstairs filtered back to her mind, as she covered his hand with her own and cradled it more firmly to her body. His groan reverberated through her, along with the words he'd spoken, the fears he'd expressed of what he might never have because of his conviction that... _Oh_.

"Matthew," her fingers stroked restlessly at the lapels of his scarlet jacket, reaching up to tug the bow-tie away that encircled his collar, loosening it to expose pale, delicate skin. "You said..."

"Mmm?" The silk was pushed from her shoulders with an appreciative hum, almost of disbelief, her dressing gown fluttering down to the floor. _Yes_.

"You said," she moistened her lips, smoothing down his lapels again before slipping her hands inside, pushing the fabric away, and he shook the stiff jacket hurriedly off, "that you only would... with someone you loved."

"Yes," he breathed, and the whisper hung in the air between them as his lips stilled over her pulse.

Then he drew back to look at her, and she saw his eyes filled with fearful wonder, the realisation dawning just as the impossible hope had struck her only moments ago. She felt herself exposed beneath his gaze, in only her nightdress, not only her body but her soul suddenly bared to azure eyes that seemed to look at her like he'd never seen her before and yet with a depth of intimacy that pierced her to her very toes. "I made myself forget," he said, with a quavering smile. "Mary, I... love you, God, of course I do."

_Forget_, Mary thought, returning his smile as her fingers lifted to stroke back his hair. _Not stop._

Suddenly everything was infused with a deeper meaning, every slightest touch with a deeper resonance as she kissed him with passionate conviction. Oh, she knew he had doubted her in 1914, but now the whispering caress of her lips and tongue against his own, she hoped, assured him of what she had known irrevocably since that summer day, from the moment it had been too late. She loved him, adored him, more deeply than her own soul, whether he would accept her now or not with the ghosts they both bore.

Even so, admissions revealed by touch and murmur had stoked the flames of their union, and they chased forward with trembling haste. Every moment wasted, every hesitation, would allow the shadows of fear and shame to creep closer, closer. She felt Matthew's hands at her waist, holding her firmly but tenderly, stroking as she worked to unfasten his waistcoat, then shirt. It felt so wonderfully wicked, to see each fraction of pale skin exposed, each scar, to see the tousled fair hair of his chest and the movement of his ribs as he drew each shaky breath. So intimate. She bent her head to kiss the faint line of a scar, her fingers ghosting across another. She felt his hands slip reverently to the back of her neck, heard the dry sob caught fast in his throat, as she wondered at the lean softness beneath her lips.

"Oh, darling..." she breathed, touched by this new understanding of him she had even as she couldn't begin to understand it at all. To see the marks of war on his body, as his skin shivered at her touch, yet barely able to imagine the marks of war that must lie in his mind and spirit. Suddenly his desperation touched her afresh, the comfort he craved and that he believed she could give to him making every touch more meaningful.

His fingers were stroking her cheeks, pulling her closer, his lips teasing hers apart as breath mingled in a deepened, searing kiss. Though hardly able to breathe through the pleasure, she welcomed him, moved willingly with his body as he shifted them back, did not resist as he eased her down to the bed. This time she felt not fear so much as a dizzying thrill of anticipation, knowing it was Matthew, knowing that he loved her. Though all the time, trying not to let it be tainted by the darkness of his fight ahead, of knowing why he needed this. She couldn't bear the thought of the future, the fact that it may not be. For now, they belonged to each other, and in this moment, that is all there was.

She felt his hand tremble as he stroked over her knee, then slipped beneath her nightdress, gliding up to her hip. She ached with desire, as though consumed by him, longing for his touch everywhere. She clutched at his hair, fingers tightening, holding him near as they sought an ever closer embrace. And it was as the silk bunched up around her waist, as the heat of his fingers skimmed over her flesh, that a sharp jolt ran through her.

"Matthew." She stiffened, still holding him tightly and close, unable to let the distance in that would threaten to tear them apart again as she knew that it would.

"What is it?" His hand withdrew with a sharp intake of breath, his darkened eyes glittering. She shook her head, no, she couldn't bear his innocence. But would it be fair, when he'd been through so much already? She wavered, but as their course had been drawn surer as fingers mapped skin, she knew that to let him blindly continue in ignorance was less fair still. When he had so brutally bared the shame he felt of himself, how could she let him be blind to her own?

Even if he would despise her. If ever she was to owe him the truth, it was now.

"You should know," she whispered, and squeezed her eyes closed so to hide from his disgust. She had to fight for the words to come, her throat thick and uncooperative. "There has been another."

_There_.

She waited, breathless, for his rejection to come.

When no response came, for what felt like an age, her eyes opened a fraction, to see the shock still registered on his face. Still, he held her, still, her hands framed his face, and slowly she blinked. "Say something, please..."

She could see reflected in his eyes the war he waged within himself, lips pursed and body trembling with restraint of all that he must feel.

His words, when they came at last, were hissed through gritted teeth. "Well, I can only say... that Richard is..."

"Richard... was the best offer I had, giving me the chance to save my reputation before it's too late. That is all, I don't mean... I don't mean him." Her eyes closed again as it all swept over her, the years of self-imposed punishment and the relief that honesty finally brought. "I'm so sorry."

"What for?" His chuckle was low and bitter, and she saw the confusion reign in his shadowy gaze. How could he understand, after all? She glanced at him, made shy by the barbed sting of reality. But a smile, as thin and bitter as it was, had crept to his face. "You said there was no time for regrets."

She stared at him. "So I did."

They stared at each other in the flickering darkness, still held in a tentative, unbroken embrace. Even now. Hardly daring to breathe, trying to understand each other and remember the stronger reality of _this_, of _them_.

Matthew swallowed, lips trembling into a brave smile.

"Mary... Kiss me. Please."

"What?" Her eyes widened, but he was all sincerity, despite the palpable restraint of his tears. It was the last thing in the world she'd expected. "But-"

"I mean it," he said, more earnestly this time and his smile a little brighter, as if he were rushing to say it before he could argue against it. "For God's sake, darling, kiss me. And," he pressed his lips together, his hand lifting to shyly brush a lock of hair from her cheek, "perhaps... you can guide me, if I need it."

A sob rose in her throat, desperate to give in to his wish but unable to accept such ready forgiveness, if that was what he would offer. What must he think? That she'd loved a man, shared intimacy such as this, two flames of passion burning bright and mingling in the dark?

"Oh, Matthew." Her sigh was sad, almost pitying his assumption of her experience. "I'm afraid it wasn't as romantic as you make it sound - I was very stupid."

"Stop." His firmness made her blink in surprise, and suddenly she understood him. The conviction in his eyes that he didn't want to know any more, not now, it could not overcome them and haunt him any more. Later, she supposed, the spectre of it would return, another time, and she could explain to him more properly all that it had meant. Of course he didn't want to think about it now, for if he did then perhaps he would see sense, and realise all her faults as she had expected him to do. The fullness of it would turn him away. But now, before it could, he wanted her to kiss him, and take the terrible truth away.

She didn't know if she reached him first, or the other way around, suddenly caught in a crush of swollen lips and earnest hands. She felt the thrill of entrapment between the softness of the bed and his body, the skin of his back warm beneath her palms, learning the texture of lean muscle that shifted as he moved over her. They needed to forget, to let the blissful truth of this present reality obliterate all else from their thoughts.

Again he reached for the hem of silk that covered her, his fingers teasing but hesitating. Somehow his shyness only aroused her more, because it meant so much more, that he wanted her... That he loved her. Her gentle murmurs encouraged him, the arch of her back, and soon the material was sweeping up and off, revealing her fully to the heat of his gaze.

His lips parted in wondrous adoration, but no words came. She didn't need them to, and simply kissed him instead, their breath stolen away by the intimacy of skin against skin. Skin that was warm, run through with a pulse of desire so alive, so strong. She sighed as his mouth learned her body, her breath hitching in little gasps with every caress of his tongue, tentative at first, then more and more sure. Soon there seemed no place for modesty within their passion, not when his fingers had searched her so intimately, not when his mouth had teased over her sensitive flesh, not when she'd had to bite her lip to stop from crying out his name as ripples of ecstasy rolled over the whole of herself.

Though her limbs felt heavy and limp, her pleasure spoken in languid kisses that tugged at his lips, the lingering pulse of arousal soon built swiftly again, too strong to resist. Shaking fingers loosened his belt, then trousers, working past the trappings of rank and role to cast his uniform to the floor. For a moment he seemed paralysed, stripped of its protection with every scar and blemish exposed, but each one to Mary was beautiful. She saw the naked fear in his eyes, of this and what he must go back to, the marks that it had left on him, and her heart tightened with love and the desire to comfort him.

She lifted her head to kiss him, the fingers of one hand playing in the hair at the nape of his neck as the other stroked the thatch of hair on his chest, following it down to his belly, and down again. His body convulsed when she touched him, taking him in the warm caress of her hand that wrought a sharp groan from his lips, a helpless sob of pleasure. He was hot in her palm, stroking him in a firm but gentle rhythm, and as he whimpered against her lips she longed to know... Was this what he had thought of, and hoped for? Could she give him the balm that he sought, could she sate what he feared, having known such bliss together? Surely this was more than she'd ever dared to dream of, though it seemed like a dream even as it was happening. Her fingers released him as he sank between her thighs, her knees falling apart to welcome his hips as she clutched the slick skin of his shoulder. But he paused there, taunting her, withholding fulfilment as he raised his head from her kiss to look at her. She stifled a moan as she tried to follow, but his hand at her cheek so tenderly restrained her.

"Oh my darling," he whispered, and she felt his eyes rake over her darkly once more, yet with a reverence that made her tremble. His thumb traced the lower edge of her lip, the simplest touch so intense she could hardly breathe. He smiled faintly, "You look so delicate..."

Her answering chuckle was soft, and calming. "Don't worry. I won't break."

"I know. You're strong." He kissed her gently, but still, he hesitated, his body trembling with the effort of it. His breath laboured in and out, his eyes fluttering closed as she drew him down to another, sweeter kiss. Her hand slid down his back, her legs curling around his waist in wordless encouragement.

Time seemed to slow and still, suspended in quivering anticipation then let go as he finally eased within her with a softly gasped oath. Slowly, Mary released the breath that she held as she accustomed to the feel of him, the feeling of utter completeness that filled her. She held him, her arms a tight and tender grip that anchored them like a lifeline in the storm.

She gasped as he began to move, drawing back and sinking in, a slow, steady beat that echoed whispers in the night. At first it was slow, each movement lingering, as they tried to savour every moment to hold to. But it was too much to take in, and Mary clung to her lover as the fire in her belly flamed, stoked by each thrust of him within her and his breathless cries on her skin. Her eyes squeezed shut, her body honed on sensation and sound, wracked with pleasure as her hips bucked to meet his, quicker and harder as control began to splinter.

All semblance of grace lost, she didn't care, for anything beyond their bodies fused together and the heaven it wrought. Fingers tousled hair and limbs tangled, slicked with sweat, his fingers gripping her thigh as his hips slammed against hers in a dizzying loss of control. It seemed to go on and on, her body shuddering as cresting waves bore her to the brink of consciousness. As tremors rocked her body she felt him convulse, the erratic jerk of his hips as his breath hissed out in a gasping moan, until slowly he stilled. Latent shivers ran through him while she stroked his hair, soothing, squeezing her eyes closed against the prick of tears behind them.

She could feel him still, the warmth of his breath on her neck, the pulse beneath his ribs... so wonderfully, preciously alive in her arms.

**TBC**

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A/N: _Thank you so much for reading. Of course I'd love to know what you think, and I do hope you enjoyed it. More to come soon... Thank you!_


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